Chapter 90: Echoes Of Noravelle.

Chapter 90

Sigrid smiled, the subtle curve of her lips softening her usually intimidating features as she took another slow, deliberate sip of the fragrant brew. As the warm liquid washed over her mouth, a strange, forgotten familiarity bloomed in her chest. She internally noted that she recognized this exact, exquisite flavor from a time buried deep within her early childhood.

It was a taste she had not encountered in many years. Turning her crimson gaze toward Beatrice, who was just settling back into her seat with an satisfied air, Sigrid set her cup down with a delicate click. "I must ask, Beatrice... where precisely did House Windermere acquire this particular tea?"

Beatrice blinked, humming thoughtfully as she tapped her chin with a gloved finger. "Hmm, if I recall correctly, my father procured several crates of it directly from a prominent merchant hailing from Noravelle." 𝒻𝑟ℯℯ

Sigrid’s brow furrowed slightly, a flicker of genuine confusion passing through her eyes. She would never forget how, when her mother was still alive, the late Duchess had personally brewed this exact tea every afternoon. It had been their quiet routine, a mother and daughter sharing moments over that distinct, floral-scented liquid. Yet, after her mother’s untimely death, Sigrid had never once encountered the blend again within the grand estates of Arkovia, and the memory of its unique flavor had gradually faded from her mind until this very moment.

"Noravelle..." Sigrid repeated softly, the name tasting foreign on her tongue.

"Yes, the Kingdom of Noravelle," Beatrice elaborated cheerfully, leaning forward to pour herself another half-cup. "Though from what the court diplomats say, they are rapidly on their way to declaring themselves an empire. They are an extraordinarily prosperous realm with a revered monarch and trade routes that span across the southern seas. Naturally, their most famous export is their high-end jewelry and precious gemstones. Some noblewomen within our realm pay tens of thousands of gold pieces simply to obtain a private viewing of their seasonal collections! Any gentleman fortunate enough to secure even the smallest raw stone from their central mines is immediately elevated in the eyes of his peers, filled with absolute pride while his companions green with envy. And the woman who receives such a gift is instantly considered superior in status—or so the grand ladies of the capital claim. Their deep mountain mines produce the finest, most flawless gems in the world, making their merchant houses wildly successful. After all, regardless of age or standing, what highborn woman does not harbor a deep passion for breathtaking jewels?"

Beatrice’s eyes suddenly dropped to Sigrid’s hands resting elegantly on the white tablecloth. Her brown eyes widened, and she let out a low, appreciative whistle that was delightfully uncouth for a Duke’s daughter. "My goodness, Sigrid... you truly are remarkably blessed, are you not?"

Sigrid glanced down at her own left hand, tilting her head. "And why do you say that?"

"Your engagement ring!" Beatrice gestured enthusiastically toward the dazzling ring resting on Sigrid’s finger. "That vibrant central jewel—that particular shade and clarity originate exclusively from the deep royal veins of Noravelle. It is an exceptionally rare find! That specific classification of stone possesses a natural, glass-like gloss beneath its surface, reflecting the most mesmerizing crimson hue known to noble jewelers."

Sigrid’s breath hitched slightly as her thumb mindlessly brushed over the cool surface of the red gem. A quiet memory surfaced in her mind—of Soren casually putting the ring on her finger, stating with his usual impassive tone that he had commissioned the stone specifically to match the unique shade of her eyes.

Beatrice sighed dreamily, looking at the ring with obvious admiration. "Duke Soren must have paid extraordinary attention to detail, insisting on a rare foreign gem just to mirror the exact color of your eyes."

"Yes... he must have," Sigrid murmured absentmindedly, her fingers lingering on the band as a strange, unreadable sensation settled in her chest. Looking back up at her host, she offered a polite nod. "You possess a surprising depth of knowledge regarding foreign luxury goods and precious trade items, Beatrice."

Beatrice beamed, her cheeks dimpling with genuine enthusiasm. "I am deeply passionate about it! I adore fine jewelry, grand textiles, and rare imports. In truth, one of my greatest secret ambitions is to one day manage a major trading enterprise or luxury guild of my own."

Sigrid gracefully rose to her feet, smoothing down the heavy velvet skirts of her mantle. "Well, I sincerely hope you achieve that ambition, Beatrice. However, the hour grows late, and I must take my leave now. It was a true pleasure meeting you today."

Beatrice scrambled up from her chair, her eyes shining with immense delight. "Can I... may I give you a hug before you depart?"

Sigrid froze for a fraction of a second, completely taken aback by the unreserved physical affection—a gesture practically unheard of in high society interaction. Yet, seeing the genuine, expectant warmth in the younger girl’s eyes, Sigrid softened and offered a small nod. Beatrice stepped forward immediately, wrapping her arms around Sigrid in a brief, enthusiastic embrace. "I shall definitely write to you soon, Sigrid! I will undoubtedly require far more of your brilliant romantic advice in the near future!"

A bright, genuine laugh escaped Sigrid’s lips—a sound so rare and light that Lilith, standing nearby, blinked in pleasant astonishment. "We shall see about that, Beatrice," Sigrid replied warmly, before turning to make her exit.

Outside the estate grounds, Chester had already brought the heavy Northern carriage to the front of the drive, holding the wooden door open as Sigrid stepped inside with Lilith following closely behind. As the carriage jolted forward, embarking on the long journey back toward the cold borders of the North, Sigrid leaned her head against the padded velvet interior, staring out at the passing snow-dusted landscape.

Her mind, however, was nowhere near the road. It was entirely fixated on the Kingdom of Noravelle. In her past life, she had paid little to no attention to the foreign kingdom, viewing it as nothing more than a distant trading partner that occasionally sent emissaries to Prince Ragnar’s court. Yet now, its name seemed to be echoing everywhere around her. Most troubling of all was the memory of that tea. Why had her mother always insisted on drinking that specific, highly imported tea from Noravelle? Arkovia boasted hundreds of premier tea estates, yet her mother had favored one shipped from across the continent. Her mother had rarely spoken of her own youth or her family origins before marrying into the Northern aristocracy. Mother... just how many secrets did you carry to your grave? Sigrid pondered silently, letting out a long, heavy sigh as the carriage rattled over the cobblestones.

By the time the heavy wooden gates of the Northern Fortress swung open to welcome them, dusk had begun to settle over the frostbitten courtyard. Lilith promptly assisted her mistress inside the grand keep, escorting her to her private chambers to help her strip away the heavy travel mantle and formal social attire in favor of a comfortable, yet elegant, house gown. Once dressed, Sigrid paused before her vanity, her eyes falling once again upon the crimson engagement ring. Despite changing her attire, she chose to leave the ring firmly on her finger.

Descending the grand stone staircase, Sigrid spotted a young servant girl sweeping the lower hallway and called out smoothly, "Pardon me, do you happen to know where the Duke is currently residing?"

Before the maid could bow and offer an answer, a deep, resonant baritone echoed from the shadow of the adjacent corridor. "I am right here, Duchess."

Sigrid turned her head to see Soren stepping into the warm glow of the wall sconces. He was dressed in his usual dark tunic and heavy leather boots, his towering frame carrying an aura of quiet, solid absolute presence. A faint, amused smile touched Sigrid’s lips as she met his dark blue eyes. Soren stopped a few paces away, his gaze scanning her face with subtle concern. "How was your outing to the Windermere estate?"

Sigrid let out a slow breath, shaking her head with dry amusement. "You would scarcely believe the absurdities that transpired today, Soren. First, I was confronted by—"

"Your Grace!"

The frantic shout of a young guard boy shattered the quiet atmosphere of the hall. The boy sprinted down the corridor, his boots skidding slightly on the polished floor before he halted before the Duke and Duchess, bowing breathlessly. He looked directly at Sigrid, his chest heaving. "Your Grace... you have a high-ranking visitor awaiting entry at the main gates!"

Sigrid exchanged a quick, sharp glance with Soren. She already held a strong suspicion as to who possessed the audacity to arrive unannounced at the Northern Fortress at such an hour. Without a word, Soren gestured for the guards to open the grand double doors of the keep, stepping alongside Sigrid as the icy evening wind swept into the foyer.

Standing just beyond the threshold, his cloak dusted with white frost and his features pale under the fading light, was Marquess Caspian Warwick.